


Post Season

by Kathar



Series: Double Header [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Reunions, baseball feels, for once Phil isn't plotting something, gratuitous mentions of the Cubs, it happens anyway, nor is Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: “Come on, Coulson," Clint said, "I just… it’s a celebration kinda night, and you should get to do it. And, to be real honest… I just wanna see you.”It's been two years since Phil and Clint last saw each other, before the Battle of New York. Two years and a lot of trauma, and Phil never thought they could come back from all that. But the Cubs just won the World Series, and suddenly nothing seems impossible after all.





	Post Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faeleverte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/gifts).



> I really thought this series was complete-- it had _been_ complete for two years, and showed no signs of becoming un-complete.  
> And then the Cubs won the World Series, and I suddenly knew exactly what had happened in the years between Wave Me Home and Fish Glue and String. I started this fic that night.  
> Yes, I am aware that was over two years ago. In my defense, it suddenly became very hard to write a hopeful, fluffy kind of story in November 2016. Even for my dearest Faeleverte, who has always been the inspiration and heart of this series, and whose love of Phlint is nearly as great as her love of the Cubs.  
> So here, a few years late, but right on time for pitchers and catchers, is the fourth and final-- for real this time-- installment in the Double Header series. As with the others, you don't need to know any baseball to understand it, and I've tried to insert enough exposition that you don't have to read the whole series. Though I'd never stop you.  
> Thanks to Fae for the Cubs-picking.

“Eeeee!” Phil said, then clapped his hands over his mouth and looked around guiltily. The “eeeee” escaped anyway, nearly vibrating through his fingers.

“Uh… Coulson?” Mack asked, poking his head around the bathroom door, “dude are you okay?” 

“Eeeee,” Phil said faintly, unable to stop. Mack looked past him at the tv mounted to the wall of their hotel room. On the screen, a miracle had clearly just occurred, leaving in its wake a massive orgy of hugging. A grin crawled across Mack’s face.

“Damn that looks good,” he said. “Can’t believe I was stuck in here. What was it… hundred and eight years?”

Phil nodded, because anything more than nodding was going to end up a torrent of what it had been  _ like _ , how his father and his grandfather had both died  _ without championships _ , or else he was just going to be reduced to incoherent squealing or weeping and neither the people in the next hotel room nor Mack needed to hear that this late at night.

He was afraid, though, that it was going to bust out of him at every fingertip and toe and eyes and ears and altogether if he didn’t find an outlet. He’d leapt from the bed the moment the last out came, pumping his fist and muttering  _ fuck yes _ , which was purely proper for a dignified and-- hopefully-- badass secret agent. What had come after-- the sudden stop as he realized the gravity of what had happened, that no one was rushing onto the field to say stop, go back, there's one more out, one more game, one more river to cross before the promised land, the way he’d fallen to his knees-- that was probably not. It was Rizzo shoving the ball in his pocket that finally made Phil believe. He was dimly aware he'd taken the destruction of SHIELD with more equanimity than this. 

But then, SHIELD being hopelessly corrupt was always within the realm of the possible. The Cubs winning the World Series was not. And he knew perfectly well that wouldn't make sense to Mack or to, well, anyone else. 

He needed to play it cool. Pretend he was a fan like the fans of any normal baseball team, elated but not transfigured.

But he couldn’t. He hadn’t felt so helpless to contain an urge since he’d been carving at walls and that-- actually, that was the first time he’d been able to think about the Kree-induced compulsion with anything less than disgust. Bless the Cubs, bless them now and forever for managing to redeem even that for him. 

He risked a glance back at Mack, to find him smiling benevolently back. Benevolently, but also with that certain  _ Coulson you’re so weird _ look that always made Phil second-guess himself, guiltily. Yes, anything he did now would be a squeal too far. Mack could clearly tell, because he patted Phil on the shoulder and disappeared back into the bathroom.

Phil grabbed his phone, desperate to talk to someone. To have someone tell him it wasn't just  _ his _ TV. Not some elaborate bit of spycraft being perpetrated on him.  He unlocked it to dial and pulled up the contacts list and then… stared. May would have killed him for calling at half past midnight to unleash this torrent of worry and wonder at her. Daisy was… well, Daisy was currently out of pocket chasing anti-Inhuman terrorist cells, so there went that idea. Maria Hill would have indulged him in the past, but she seemed to regard taking over the Directorship of SHIELD as a massive favor to him, and he probably shouldn’t test her patience. For a brief moment he even thought about calling Glenn Talbot, just to annoy him, but… but that would curdle the joy.

Bobbi Morse would have understood, but they’d had to burn Bobbi and her ex-- one of her exes. Her no-longer ex. At any rate, Bobbi was off the table. So was Antoine Triplett-- Phil’d gotten less self-conscious over the years about how easy it was to get, er,  _ enthusiastic--  _ around Trip, but he was in an undisclosed location putting out some diplomatic fire for Maria, so… no. 

Phil was staring down at the phone in his hand, a hollow, restless feeling beginning to drive out his Cubs-fan glee, when it started to vibrate.

He had it up and to his ear before he’d really thought about it. 

“They  _ won _ !” he burst out by way of greeting, feeling his voice skirl high, letting it go. Anyone calling him right  _ now _ probably knew what they were going to get from him. “They  _ did _ it.  They nearly killed us all, oh my god that rain delay, I just-- and why would you pull Hendricks and-- they  _ won _ !”

“Fuck yeah they did!” Phil’s caller responded, with equal vehemence. “Did you-- of course you fucking did. I thought I was gonna burst. Congratulations, b-- Phil.” 

“C… Clint?” Phil glanced down at his phone at the unregistered number, and tried to believe  _ that _ , as well.

“Yeah?” Clint laughed-- that same old, creaky, indulgent laugh he’d always had for Phil. “You were expecting someone else?”

“I-- wasn’t expecting you, I guess?” Phil said, tentatively. It had been at least a half year since they’d last talked-- and over two years since they’d last seen each other in person. 

“Shit, Phil, why not?” Clint asked, like two years was nothing at all. “The Cubs won! The World Series! Of  _ course _ I was gonna call. Fuck, I’dve found a way to call from the fucking Raft if I was still stuck there. Jesus. I know what this means to you.”

Phil felt his hands shaking and his eyes begin to well up as he said helplessly

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

 

This was  _ Clint _ , after all. Through the years, Phil had come to expect two things from him: that Clint always knew, and that he was always a surprise. Stupid of Phil to forget. He felt his heart-- already fit to burst its ribly confines-- grow even wider in his chest.

“Hey, so, what’s it like there?” Clint asked eagerly into Phil’s silence. “Is it wild?”

“Not… no it’s pretty quiet. Just me and Alphonso Mackenzie.”

Who had  _ missed the last out of the game _ because of an ill-timed bathroom run, Phil didn’t add. Actually, given how long he was gone, Phil assumed he’d been texting YoYo. Anyway, he had mostly been watching the game in the first place to humor Phil. So it had been basically like being alone anyway.

“Yeah but, the crowd,” Clint pressed, sounding confused. “Why aren’t you-- wait. Are you not in at the game?”

“No,” Phil sighed, wandering over to peek out the window. “I’m not.”

“What the fuck, Phil? I thought for sure you’d’ve gotten tickets to all the games, or at  _ least _ gone to stand outside Wrigley. Figured you had more pull in SHIELD than that, Mr. Former Director. Hell, I’m shocked you didn’t just go AWOL, like you nearly did in oh-three. What the hell happened?” 

Clint seemed absolutely infuriated on Phil’s behalf, and the heart that Phil had thought couldn’t wrench much further managed to prove him wrong.

What had happened was that Daisy was still out there, alone and ostensibly a renegade, as she hunted down the Watchdogs. Anything else he could maybe have dropped; Maria would have understood. Hell, it would have won him points with General Talbot, who always seemed mildly relieved when Phil showed his fannish underbelly. Like he thought it meant he was gaining blackmail over Phil or some malarky like that. But he’d been so afraid that the minute he stopped watching her back, Daisy would get herself caught by someone-- either the terrorists or by someone on their side who  _ didn’t _ know she was in deep cover. 

Or maybe he was just afraid to behave in any way other than normal, for fear of testing the universe. If he just keep walking, it might not notice that Daisy was still free, the same way it might not notice that the Cubs were winning. 

Now, of course, in retrospect, it felt silly. He could have been in Chicago right this minute. He could have been mingling with the crowd around Wrigley, hoping that the mass of people, the sheer collective unburdening, could help him believe in the impossible.

Clint caught his silence and sighed.

“Just another side effect of saving the world, huh?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Phil replied, watching the dimly-lit street below and making an effort to keep his voice light. “But I can nearly see that diner on 71st from here, the one that always played the out of market games. So… it’s nearly like old times, huh?”

“Wait.” There was a clatter on the other end of Clint’s line and a faint curse, like he’d just dropped something-- likely the phone. “Wait wait wait, you’re in New York?”

“I am,” Phil admitted, “we had a lead on a… well, it didn’t pan out. But I got to watch the game anyway.”

“And now you’re all alone in a hotel room and you aren’t even celebrating much because you might accidentally ruin your rep with Mack, huh?”

“I think I ruined my rep with Mack a long time ago,” Along about the time he nearly went insane from the Kree juice running in his veins, in fact. 

“Fuck that shit,” Clint growled, “I know you. You’re totally trying to be all Coulson-cool about it, and that’s a travesty. Okay, lemme think a minute.”

And he did, or at least Phil assumed that’s what he was doing, silent on the other end of the phone. Phil found himself holding his breath, though he wasn’t sure for  _ what _ . At last, Clint let out a satisfied grunt.

“Tell you what,” he said, “if you’re near the diner it’ll take, uh… little less than an hour to get there, this time of night. Where d’you want to meet me?”

“Wait--  _ you’re _ in New York?” Phil asked, then wondered why that had taken him so much by surprise. It wasn’t like Clint was a fugitive anymore-- Phil and Maria (mostly Maria) had taken care of  _ that _ particular Ross-inspired disaster quickly once they’d heard about it.

“Yes, Phil,” Clint said patiently. “In fact, I am in bed in Bed-Stuy. But I’m getting my pants on and going out. Tell you what, meet you in… Strawberry Fields?”

“The middle of Central Park? In the dark?” Phil asked, a little confused. “Not the diner?”

“Well, I’m bringing a dog,” Clint said. “Meet you there?”

“In the middle of Central Park in November, late at night?” Phil repeated, just to clarify. Coming from anyone else, it wouldn’t have been a tempting offer. But Clint….

“Come on, Coulson, I just… it’s a celebration kinda night, and you should get to do it. And, to be real honest… I just wanna see you.”

… Clint had never had to try to be tempting, it was just his resting state. Two years didn’t seem to have changed that much. Phil glanced back at the bathroom door, which was still closed and ominously quiet. Really not subtle, Mack.

 

“Yes,” he said. “In an hour.”

\---

Phil hadn’t been waiting long, huddled down into his collar and lurking beneath a streetlamp in the shadows of a large tree, to feel like maybe he’d made a mistake. There was no way whatever happened next was going to hold up to the weight of expectations he’d put on it. 

It had been too long. They weren’t the two people who’d lived in each others’ pockets anymore. They weren’t Strike Team Delta. They were just two people who’d used to know each other well. Phil hadn’t even seen Clint in person more than a few times-- a couple few, Clint would have said-- since the Battle of New York. 

The distance was mostly Phil’s fault-- Clint hadn’t even known Phil was alive for several months. He claimed he hadn’t blamed Phil for that. They both knew what SHIELD was like. Still, it hadn’t felt comfortable between them when they met again. After the initial embrace they hadn’t even touched, hadn’t joked…. Somewhere between Phil’s death and Clint’s brainwashing, something seemed to have ended between them. Phil had supposed, at the time, it was only natural.

After that, Phil’d spent the better part of a year galavanting around the world with his team on the Bus, slowly realizing that something was very, very wrong with his brain. Clint, meanwhile, had eloped with Bobbi Morse and then divorced her, so he’d had a wild time of it as well. And then, of course, SHIELD had fallen and they’d both gone on the lam in separate directions: Clint had become a full-time Avenger and Phil had become the leader of a secret rogue intelligence agency. Which oddly meant they talked more, after Maria Hill let the Avengers not named “Clint” or “Natasha” know that Phil was alive.

Phil’d even gotten a very nice card from Clint when he was still convalescing after the debacle on the Iliad where he’d nearly lost his hand. And Phil had sent Clint e-book after e-book when Clint had been laid up after breaking his pelvis and fibula. They’d kept more-or-less in touch, basically. But they hadn’t seen each other in person at all since the fall of SHIELD. 

As if they’d never been close, before Phil’d died and Clint had been brainwashed by an alien who thought he was a demigod, before marriages and directorships and divorces and Inhumans and going on the lam and imprisonment. Close not just as teammates-- if that had been all, the distance between them could have been jumped years ago. Certainly could be now.

But they’d been much, much more. Phil’d designed it that way, years ago. 

He’d heard heard Clint’s voice in his ear on an op, saying he didn’t think he’d live to thirty-seven, and he had decided that was not a thing that could be allowed to happen in any universe he inhabited. He’d also decided that the best way to make sure Clint stuck around was to make sure he stuck as close as possible to Clint, so he could keep Clint safe. It was mostly selfish on his part-- anyone who’d ever seen Clint and his wide smile and open heart would have agreed. Really, all Phil’d needed was evidence of reciprocation and one convenient rain-out at Wrigley, to make Clint his good friend and favorite lover.

When it came right down to it, though, and Phil’d tried to save Clint’s life, all he’d done was gotten himself killed by Loki. And Natasha-- and Clint himself-- had saved the day instead. In truth, Clint had probably never really  _ needed _ his help. So Phil had let the distance between them grow, and if no-one had ever taken Clint’s place, no-one’d ever had a chance to. Not with Phil’s schedule. And slowly the ache of not-seeing-Clint had faded into background noise. 

So why the hell was he here, now, under a dripping tree and the hazy orange glow of the lamp, with his heart high in his throat and thumping? He wasn’t going to get what he wanted-- because Clint-then was what he wanted in this moment, with brain still on repeat, fuzzed with the roar of the crowd and the crack crack crack of bats and the impossible idea that the Cubs had actually won the World Series. Of baseball. 

Clint-then had seduced him with baseball puns and Phil’d seduced him right back with ballpark hotdogs in the cheap seats. At times, Clint and the Cubs had been nearly inextricable in his mind, which maybe explained why their relationship had ended in disaster. Just like every pennant race or post-season in the last hundred and eight years.

Except this one, of course. 

But it  _ wasn’t _ a sign. It was stupid of Phil to think it might be. There was no way he could expect Clint-now to give him what he needed-- not even if Phil could articulate what he needed, which was far from a certainty. 

From where he was standing, Phil could just make out the design set in the pavement at the center of the path, the word  _ Imagine _ carved in the center of the circle. But he couldn’t; he hadn’t. Even with this one wild wish coming true--  _ it’s only a game, Coulson, it’s not like it matters _ \-- he couldn’t imagine what would happen when he and Clint met again. 

He shuffled, looked up at the leaves, and contemplated leaving.

Which was, of course, when the dog barrelled into him from behind. Phil’s knees folded at the impact and he went down hard, hitting the turf with the top of his head inches from the scroll-back of the park bench in front of him.

“Lucky, no!” someone was shouting, feet pounding up the pavement behind him. “Damnit, dog, what the hell’s gotten into you?”

The dog-- Lucky, presumably-- stood over Phil, panting and whining, his doggy breath coming hot on Phil’s cheek. Phil briefly considered going for his icer, before deciding that was probably overkill. Anyway, he’d recognized the dog-owner’s voice, and he was damned if he’d start off their reunion by tasing Clint’s mutt.

“Oh my god Phil, I’m sorry,” Clint was saying as he came up. “Lucky doesn’t do this-- down, dog, don’t you dare lick him, not after that. You’ve got to earn kisses, mutt.” 

The dog hadn’t been attacking him, he’d been  _ greeting _ him. Phil winced. His reflexes had gone to  _ hell _ over the past few years, if he couldn’t recognize that.

“Come on, babe,” Clint continued briskly, “let’s get you up.”

His arms were under Phil’s armpits before Phil could stop him, hoisting. Phil let himself be lifted, despite the fact that he was perfectly capable of standing himself, because he’d kind of frozen at the first touch of Clint’s hands. Were his knees shaking? Yes. Yes they were. Maybe he could blame it on the dog.

“Clint?” His voice came out strange, even to him. He’d expected it to be bewildered, but instead it had taken on an elaborate kind of calm. “When did you get a dog?”

Upright, he could finally look Clint in the face, or at least as much of it as he could see in the dark. Clint seemed caught mid-way between grin and grimace, and his lower lip was wobbling a little. At Phil’s question, Clint’s lips resolved into grin.

“Same time the dog got a me-- it’s a long story. Jeez, Phil, look at you. I mean--  _ look _ at you. When did you stop wearing ties? It’s. Wow.” He stepped back to hold Phil mostly at arm’s length, though Phil noted he didn’t let go entirely. 

So Phil brought his own hands up and set them on Clint’s broad shoulders, letting his thumbs slip back into the hollows just above Clint’s clavicle like they always used to do. Clint felt the same, sounded the same-- all raspy and jolly-- looked close enough to the same, just a little older and more worn. The lamplight was bouncing off his nose, turning it bright orange and making it look even more gnome-like than usual and, again as usual, Phil was struck by just how attractive Clint Barton actually was. 

He never had been able to keep it in his memory adequately.

“Look at us both,” Phil said, just to have something to say, and they did.

For probably more than a minute, in fact, as the dog wound his way around their feet, panting and wagging his tail and nudging legs while they just stood there, holding each other at arm’s length, cataloguing changes. Their grins grew bigger with each passing second, until finally Clint gave a barking laugh and shook Phil.

“This is supposed to be a celebration,” he said. “The Cubs won the motherfucking World Series! This is supposed to be your chance to, I dunno, high-five someone, Phil. Or shout, or… or give me a noogie or--”

Phil gave in to the twitch of his fingers and yanked Clint to him, wrapping his arms around Clint’s, pressing them both together and hugging hard. Clinging for dear life, possibly. 

Because god, god, god  _ god,  _ it was  _ Clint _ . It was  _ Clint _ and the Cubs were World Champions and apparently the night had room in it for a little more joy, a little more healing. Just like that, the fizzing, delirious joy from earlier, that first Mack and then Phil’s own memories had dampened, was back, skirling higher and higher. It was all he could do to just cling on to Clint, bury his head in Clint’s neck, and keen with joy. 

He wasn’t entirely sure if he was sobbing or laughing, or what Clint was doing-- from the sound of it, he could have been doing both as well. Dimly, he could feel Clint’s arms circling his waist and clutching tightly, too, surrounding him.

“Okay,” Clint managed at last, his voice shaky and choked, “okay hugging works, too. Hugging’s a legitimate way to go when you-- oh my god, Phil, I have missed you  _ so much _ .” The last words broke, and Clint’s arms tightened more, his hands digging into the back of Phil’s jacket.

“Yeah,” Phil told him, as best he could given his whole body had gone tight and achy, like his emotions had gotten too big for it and his seams were about to split. “Yeah me too, me too.” he lifted one hand to the back of Clint’s neck, to keep him from untucking himself. “Oh, Clint, me too.”

They probably lost a little time there under the leaves. Eventually, Lucky seemed to get bored and sat down, snuffling the grass and looking pretty much anywhere but at his owner. Phil only noticed out of the corner of his eye; the rest of him was too busy holding and being held, feeling all his delight bubble back up and over, until he thought he would fly away if Clint let go.

Eventually, Clint turned his head and pulled away a little.

“Hey, Phil?” he asked, sounding casual and curious.

“Hmm?” Phil replied, still floating.

“Can I kiss you again?” 

Could he? Clint sounded perfectly matter-of-fact about it. And in his current state, nothing seemed more logical to Phil, either. Buoyed up by baseball dreams come true, the orange glow, and the scent of Clint’s skin, he couldn’t remember why they’d ever stopped. Or even that they had. Surely they’d just paused for a bit, like Clint’s  _ again _ implied?

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and leaned in. 

Clint’s lips were warm and firm, and opened almost immediately against Phil’s, shifting and moving, pressing in hard before drawing back to change the angle and come in again. Between them, they recreated nearly every kiss they’d ever had, and Phil’s post-baseball-and-Clint high settled into something warm and wide and all-consuming.

They lost a lot more time.

In fact, Phil only realized it had been a good ten minutes of kissing and holding and, well,  _ fondling _ , when his phone buzzed in his pocket and he had to pull away to retrieve it.

_ Should I worry? _ Mack had texted.

Phil looked down at the words, trying to make sense of them. He licked his lips; the feeling of Clint’s lips was still on them, even though Clint had moved off, and made it very hard for him to read. 

“Hey.” Clint laid a gentle hand on Phil’s, over the phone. “May I?” 

Phil gave the phone up willingly; letting Clint have his way when he got an idea in his head had always served him well.

Clint texted back a quick  _ No _ .  _ Under control. _

_ Okay. What’s your ETA? _

“I thought you didn’t have an active op,” Clint said, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t,” Phil told him. “Mack just… feels better when he knows people are safe.” 

“You mean, Mack is supposed to keep you from going off and getting yourself into trouble?” Clint asked, clearly amused at the idea. “Well, I’m glad someone’s got that job.”

_ Won’t be back till morning, _ Clint texted.  _ I’m with Hawkeye. Safe. _

“I won’t?” Phil asked, looking up at Clint. Clint was looking up, too, from under his eyelashes, like he couldn’t bear to lift his face all the way. He had on a kind of half-defiant, half-shy smirk. One Phil knew very, very well.

“I-- unless you want to?” Clint said, shrugging then shaking his head. “Did I move too fast? I guess I didn’t think we were going all the way back to the flirting-and-tight-pants stage, you know? I would’ve dressed different. I mean, can we just-- I want you to come home with me. Is it okay to just say that, still?”

“Of course it’s okay to just say it,” Phil told him, before he even had time to think about it.

“Okay. So?” Clint held the phone back out to him, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

So. So… what? Meeting Clint under the dripping trees, holding him again, that was a huge thing in and of itself. Would it be pressing their luck too far to just go back home with Clint, as if the last several years had never happened? Could they even do that?

Phil paused, bit his lip, and regarded Clint. 

Clint had aged, just like he had. There were shadows under his eyes, a certain rawness to him, like time had battered away a little more of his grace and left the underlying steel showing through. A band-aid peeked out from under the collar of his jacket. At some point he’d gone from looking stripped down, like a field agent, to positively scruffy. 

His smirk was re-forming into something bigger, goofier, but still shy and hopeful. Phil’s heart expanded along with it.

They’d lost so much time, between them. Time and friends and faith. No, there was no pretending the last several years hadn’t happened. But they were here, now, and Clint was right. It was equally impossible to pretend that all the time  _ before _ the Battle of New York hadn’t happened either. 

And Clint-- now-Clint-- was leaving no doubt that the last several years hadn’t erased anything, that now-Phil still had a place in his life. Even if it was just for a night.

On a night for miracles, it was the biggest one Phil had seen. Bigger even than Almora crossing home plate in the 10th. (Okay… maybe equally big.)

Phil took a breath that seemed too big for the rib cage trying to hold it, and took the phone.

_ Scratch that. Won’t be back till after noon. _

“Oh really?” Clint asked, amusement overriding his attempted skepticism.

Phil let his own smirk out, finally.

_ Or later _ , he texted.  _ Playing it by ear _ .

He put the phone back in his pocket before the three ellipses floating on Mack’s side of the text box could resolve into words.

“Really,” he said. “Take me home, Clint.”

\----

Nothing in his life, Clint thought, had brought him so much unexpected joy as following the Cubs. Yes, sure, generations of died-in-the-wool Cubs fans had died in despair of a championship, but while Clint had always liked the team, he was really a fan of Cubs  _ fans _ . One in particular, in fact, who was curled up against his chest, making soft snuffling sounds in his sleep as Clint stroked the soft fuzz of his hair. The mid-morning sun had filtered far enough into the loft that it had hit Phil’s face, gilding his eyelashes and stubble. Even in sleep, a stunned smile still lingered on his lips. 

It made Clint feel cat-smug, even though he knew Phil’s smile owed as much to Zobrist’s base-running as Clint’s blow job. Just having a small part in that smile was the best thing he’d accomplished in ages. 

The Cubs had brought Phil into his arms the first time, nine years ago now, and so many times since. And they’d brought Phil back to him now, when Clint had thought that all he’d ever get to feel again was nostalgia at the memory. Maybe that was what miracles were meant to be?

Eventually, Clint had been able to admit that Phil’s resurrection had come months too late, that the trauma after Loki, after the Battle of New York, had set and curdled something in him. And Phil, who’d been one of his two constants, had been  _ dead _ ,  _ gone _ , with a  _ headstone _ , none of which Clint had been in any shape to face. He’d come back at nearly the worst time-- too late to help and too soon for Clint to handle. At least Clint hadn’t done anything stupid like scream at him; time and therapy (and fresh disasters, like his divorce) had given Clint some perspective on the whole deal.

Enough perspective, at least, to realize that a Phil-less life was a lot more boring than the one that had had Phil in it, back when they’d been… whatever they’d been. Together. Friends. Lovers? Partners. 

Back then, Clint remembered curling up with Phil watching the Friday night games, and how every August or September, there’d come a game when Phil would close his eyes, bury his head in Clint’s shoulder, and mutter the Cubs fan mantra “next year,” with whatever degree of bitterness his team’s exit from playoff contention warranted. 

(In 2011, it had been June. Clint had protested that statistically, they had every chance-- and stopped at Phil’s glare. He’d been almost grateful Phil hadn’t lived to see the 2012 season. Almost. Okay, not at all grateful and kind of blackly amused when it turned out Phil’d lived after all but missed it due to TAHITI.)

_ Next year _ to Phil had never meant actually next year, of course, just  _ someday, maybe, have faith. _

In retrospect, Clint’d probably wanted to get closer to Phil again, earn back the place he’d used to have in Phil’s affections (and bed), since just before the fall of SHIELD.

But SHIELD  _ had  _ fallen and that opportunity had gone before it’d had a chance to come. Phil’d gone off to resurrect SHIELD covertly, and Clint’d gone on to Avenge shit and get himself in trouble, move to Bed-Stuy, get partly deafened-- same difference. And every time he’d talked to Director Coulson, he’d think to himself  _ next year _ . 

Clint had never stopped following the Cubs, though, and he’d never stopped thinking of Phil when he did it. Remembering sitting in the cheap seats at Wrigley next to him, watching Phil’s usual agent facade crumble in the face of suspect strikes and cheap beer. Staying up late with him for west coast games and long, lazy sex on Phil’s couch or in various hotel rooms or safe houses or bolt holes. His memory of Phil had gone from so sharp it hurt to the kind of hazy, achy nostalgia of the put-away past.

Until last night. Until Clint-- who’d been ratcheting higher and higher with every out, who’d nearly died at the rain delay, who’d had Lucky so agitated the dog had been running in circles around the apartment barking at each out-- had seen the sign.

Literally.

He’d seen the sign in the crowd, in big blue letters, saying  _ This Year. _

Look, no one’d ever accused Clint of being kind of guy to base his romantic decisions on rational thinking or considered… anything. That was Phil. Phil was the planner. Clint was the guy who jumped his coworker because said coworker was wearing jeans with a suit coat and wanted him back. Or eloped with another coworker just because they’d happened to save each others’ lives three times each in as many days and she was brilliant-- and wanted him back. 

Usually, Clint was fine being impulsive, but sometimes, just  _ sometimes _ he wished his past self had been more organized. If Clint had been a planner, he might not have had to spend ten minutes flinging his couch cushions all over and pulling out the furniture searching for either the Stark phone Tony’d given him for Avengers business; one of the three cheap burners he kept for contacting various other friends, acquaintances, and enemies; or his battered rolodex. All of which held Phil’s number and all of which Lucky could’ve eaten-- except that Lucky was helping him look, sticking his wet nose under the carpet, tangling himself in the curtains, and gnawing on the cushions.

Clint never did find those phones-- he should probably do that before he was called out again-- but he had found a post-it stuck to the underside of a book Phil’d leant him probably seven years ago, and he’d crossed his fingers and dialed it on his landline.

(Which was why he had a landline in the first place, thank you.)

And now.

And  _ now _ \--

Clint ran his thumb over Phil’s eyelid, and watched it flicker. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, when he’d asked Phil to meet him. If he’d thought about it, he’d probably have assumed they’d have to do some repair work… maybe a lot. Death and divorce and distance-- any one of those things would have been enough to break a relationship. 

But from the moment they’d hugged, Clint had known that nothing had broken between them, after all. They’d just… had a rain delay. 

Phil stirred again, starting to wake, and Clint let go of him long enough to find and insert his hearing aids-- something Phil wouldn’t be familiar with, either. Well, they’d go over that later. Right now was for kissing Phil awake, for reminding himself that this, at least, hadn’t changed.

No. No, it  _ had  _ changed.

Old Phil tended to react with a half-smile then a grumble, then he’d push Clint off before morning breath could hit.

This Phil, new Phil, blinked once, then grinned so broadly it lit him up brighter than the streak of sunlight creeping across the bed. 

“Hey Clint,” he rasped, and brought his free hand up to brush hair back from Clint’s forehead. The contact was feather-light, but it hit Clint hard. 

“Happy Championship day… after,” Clint said, trying for a light tone despite the way his heart was trying to beat out of his chest. “Post-Championship Day? World Seriesween? Cubsvember?”

Phil stared at him a moment, and then his grin broke, he threw back his head, and cackled. The light from last night was still radiating from him, and Clint’s breath caught.

“I still can’t believe it,” Phil confessed, looking back up at him with stunned, vulnerable eyes.

Clint shook his head, trying to find words that would make it past the fondness crowding up in his throat. 

Last night, both their reunion in the park and their reunion cocooned in Clint’s comforter, could easily have been a dream. But this morning’s Phil, cracked open with happiness, was so real he was impossible.

“I can’t either,” Clint said, his voice sounding cracked open, too, when he found it.

Somehow Phil must have read his eyes, or his voice, must have realized he meant their reunion as much as the pennant. He opened his mouth and started to say something at least twice before closing it again. Then he shook his head in turn, his eyes on Clint just as big as they’d been when he’d talked about Rizzo’s game-ending tag.

“Clint,” was all he said, but the way he said it, it was everything. And then he was pulling Clint down to him, kissing him deep and not even caring that they both tasted kind of like ass (which made sense, considering). Clint gave himself up to being enfolded, enveloped in Phil’s arms, which were so much stronger than they’d been before his death. His thighs were broader too-- or maybe Clint just couldn’t remember them well enough.

Clint let Phil remind him, and remind him again about other things it was hard to remember quite accurately, as he slipped them both down in the sheets, the sun warm on their backs. By the time they surfaced again, Clint still wasn’t sure Phil was real-- or that any of it was. But he already knew Phil was  _ back _ . He had no idea what that would mean, or if Phil knew it yet. But they could figure it out.

They  _ would _ figure it out. Because if the Cubs could win the pennant, anything could happen.

\---

Phil spent a fair amount of time after breakfast-- lunch, whatever-- texting furiously (and occasionally cursing then wiping orange juice off the screen). Clint gave him the space to do it; work waited for no man, and it was already a miracle he’d managed to carve out a morning for Clint. If he wanted… well, if he wanted this to go back to where it had been, or go anywhere new, he was going to have to remember that. 

Moved by the association of ideas, he went to find his own phones. They were right where he’d left them-- one in his left sneaker, another on top of the lamp, the third in the butter drawer of the refrigerator. Each of them still had Phil’s number, so he was set.

Well, set for contacting Phil, anyway. Given how much they both travelled, if he actually wanted to make sure this stayed actual and not… potential, basically… he should probably make sure Phil could get into his apartment easily. Did he have a spare key? 

Was now the  _ time _ for a spare key?

Clint eyed Phil uneasily.

World Series wins were one thing, but would it be stretching his so far overwhelming luck to give Phil a key right  _ now _ , one (amazing) night after a couple years of delay? Should he ask, or would it be better to work up to it? 

Assuming he even had a spare key, which was a really good question, and that if he had it he could find it-- which was an even better question.

“So, um, hey, Mack doing okay?” Clint asked, trying to stop the spiral of his own thoughts.

There, that sounded natural. He could lead in from there to asking how long Phil could stay this time-- probably not long-- then maybe how often Phil was in town, and… bring up the key idea somewhere down the road. After a couple more meetings. Once they’d had time to process a bit.

“I assume Mack’s fine,” Phil replied. “Haven’t actually checked in with him yet. I’ve been talking with Maria.”

As in Director Hill. Clint’s brain took a hard left-turn into work mode.

“What’s up?” he asked, knowing Phil would hear the shift in his voice. He always had.

“Nothing-- nothing urgent,” Phil reassured him. “It’s more… short and long-range strategic. Just… scheduling, and. Um. If you…” he trailed off, gulping. His eyes were locked on Clint’s, wide and… questioning? Nervous? Calculating?

Clint felt warmth grow in his chest, radiate out through all his limbs, was sure his grin was turning transparent. He knew that face, that face was Phil planning--  _ Clint _ -planning. Not the normal kind of planning like what they were going to do in bed (okay, sometimes), or on missions. No, that was the look Phil got when he had decided that Clint needed something from him, and was going to find a way to make whatever it was happened. He just wasn’t sure yet how to get Clint to agree that Clint needed whatever it was.

He’d seen it often enough, starting with that hotel room in Chicago, with a rained-out game and squeaky cheap blankets. At the time, that look had made Clint itch. It was too damn heady; a little was great, made him practically high. Any more just scared him.

It felt big now, too, heavy. Being the subject of Phil’s plans was a  _ lot _ to live up to. Overwhelming. But the itch didn’t come. 

Okay so maybe it  _ was  _ a lot to put on one night after years apart. But they’d had more than six years before that. Even with death and deafening and divorce and other shit between them, Clint was willing to bet on those six years being enough of a lead. And it wasn’t just  _ any _ night-- it was a fucking world-historic night, and a them-historic night, too. 

Clint didn’t know how to  _ say _ any of that yet, or if putting words to it would bring it all tumbling down. Good thing, then, he didn’t have to. What that planning look in Phil’s eye was telling him was that he and Phil’d somehow come out on the same page, the way they always used to be. 

So he just shook his head again, set his hand over Phil’s on the phone, and dragged him in for another smile-filled kiss.

The Cubs had won the pennant, Phil was back in his arms, and all was, for once, good and right and possible in the world. 

And he was pretty sure he had a spare key in the junk drawer.

\---

Phil slipped into the passenger seat next to Mack late that afternoon and tossed his rumpled jacket into the back seat of the car. Mack gave him a very judgemental once-over, then snorted.

“Daisy’s been spotted in Hoboken,” he said shortly. “On the run. Better hope we don’t have to extract her this time. You keep smiling like that, no one in their right mind will believe you’re just an anonymous fed, Coulson. I thought you were just meeting Hawkeye. What the hell happened to you?”

“The Cubs won the World Series,” Phil told him, settling back and putting on his sunglasses. Mack shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, watching his rear-view closely. 

“Yeah I noticed that. It’s on the news. No, that’s your  _ I’ve got a plan _ face. Doesn’t usually mean a quiet life for anyone, when you look like that.”

“A quiet life?” Phil considered that. No, having Clint in his life had never been a  _ quiet _ thing, not even on late nights spent curled on a couch together. Those hadn’t been quiet times, just silent. But underneath the surface, they’d been packed with possibility. Like the span of time spent watching a pitcher shake off his catcher. If anything, life apart from Clint was quiet-- muffled, still. Subterranean, even, in the years he’d spent in the Playground. 

“I truly hope it doesn’t mean that, no,” he said.

Mack glanced at him, then did a double-take. Phil supposed he must be beaming, still, but he refused to ratchet back his smile. He’d earned every bit of it.

“Yeah, that ain’t just the Cubs. What  _ did _ you and Hawkeye get up to?”

_ Just celebrating something I thought might never happen _ , Phil thought. But Mack would probably catch the double entendre in it, and he didn’t really want to explain. So he just settled further back in his chair, turned his smile to smug, and said:

“That’s classified.”

“That’s--” a bike messenger zipped by, and Mack braked, hard. When he’d finished cursing and gotten them going again, he gave Phil one last side-eye. “Of course it is,” he sighed. “Well, you tell me when I need to know.”

Phil reached covertly in his pocket, and fingered the new key ring in it. 

“Sure thing,” he said. Then, looking out at the last leaves falling from the scraggly boulevard trees, like ticker tape in a parade, “You know what? I think it’s going to be a  _ beautiful _ day.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can always be found on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kat-har), and I would hug and squeeze and obsessively re-read your comments, if you were to leave them below.
> 
> For those of you waiting on the next chapter of Driftless, it's in beta and should be coming soon, barring catastrophe.


End file.
